My King
by LadyKG
Summary: Shikamaru has worked for years to develop a time travel jutsu in order to go back and save Asuma. ONE-SHOT.
**Don't own Naruto, don't own Shika-chan, don't own image being used.**

 **I know, I know; I need ta focus on my ongoing fic (Promising Tomorrow). But everything for that will be explained in the next chapter's author note and this prompt has been nagging me for a good two weeks now.**

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Old sunlight marks through torn curtains a pattern of lost time on the ground, shining against particles of dust hung in still air. The room smells of shadows, ink etched into the wood boards, decaying the thick fibers over centuries old.

Wood-handled brushes chipped and broken scatter the floor, stained in black splotches, red tipped. Papers accompany them - wilted, crumbled, burnt, old.

A shogi board covered in stains and worn is tucked in one corner, the pieces set to play but never touched. A pair of trench knives hang above the game on the wall, well-kept against the burden of age.

A cigarette is lit, hung from the lips of a scarred man. Black hair once held back falling in thick locks around the person's shoulders, tucking into the shadows of the room. Slow even breaths are released, grey swirling ringlets of smoke escaping with them.

The man closes his tired eyes, allowing his stiff muscles a moment of relaxation against the endless cycle of research and forced hope.

Fuinjutsu is second nature to him now, each stroke of a brush so familiar. His fingers long since stained black from near constant contact with ink wells.

Concocting the plan wasn't the hard part; fixing what has passed is not a new concept. Convincing himself he could do it, that it was possible, is another matter entirely.

He isn't Naruto; not the prophecy child, doesn't have a tailed beast with unlimited chakra locked away inside him. Doesn't have infinite luck and an undying will to never give up.

He is logical, calculated, knows a thousand different outcomes to any situation within a seconds analysis. Knows the risks.

When he started all those years ago, he'll admit he thought it wouldn't work, that he would find nothing. But the fourth and now his son, could flash between two areas using a seal that defied the laws of time and space. So where was the fault in at least attempting what he has now completed?

He has prepared, beyond simple creation of the seal; uncovered and memorized not only records of Akatsuki's movements but those of the council and Danzo as well. Despite his careful integration of the correct time period before the event he knows that there is the possibility he will land years prior instead of months. He wants to change things, he is lauded for his genius and understands that outside his primary goal there remains other things that should be shifted.

But Asuma's death is his priority. The last years of intensive research were all for the late Sarutobi, after all.

His friends, those who are left, think he's in a state of perpetual grief - perhaps they are right.

 _"Hey, Shikamaru, maybe you should take a break," Ino intoned, voice concerned as she hovered near his table in the library._

 _He didn't respond, simply picked up another scroll._

 _"Look, we're all worried-"_

 _"Don't be."_

 _"Wha- Don't be?!"_

 _"I'm fine, I just need to-"_

 _"Need to what?!_ _You haven't been eating! You barely leave this place! And you haven't been to any team meetings in months! He was our sensei too, so stop acting like you're the only one his death affected!"_

But he hasn't forgotten his sensei's last words, hasn't moved on from the guilt of letting the man die. And yes, he had _let_ his sensei perish that day; he is a genius no matter the time table, he could have come up with a plan, could have trained harder, not been so lazy, been stronger.

He won't make the same mistake twice.

With stiff limbs the Nara rises to his feet, ANBU uniform not even rustling with the movements, his deer mask strapped to the belt at his waist. Moving to the room's corner, disrupting the particles in the air, Shikamaru hooks gentle fingers onto the trench knives. Tucking them with care into his weapons pouch.

He makes to turn away, to start the process of pumping chakra into the seal painted with shadows and blood. But the board catches his eye, the shogi pieces dull from age and the designs wearing away. Before he can think of the sentimentality in his decision the King finds its way next to his weapons, secure.

The cigarette between his lips is removed, snuffed out against the floor as he kneels before his creation. His seal ten years in the making.

The air thickens, reacting instinctively to the quiet thrum of chakra shifting in anticipation of use.

His eyes close, allowing his mind to center.

 _'Don't worry Asuma-sensei. This time,'_

Calloused fingers splay out over dried ink, careful not to chip anything away. The energy in his coils is rolling in exception, ready to but forced from his system and put to use.

 _'you're my King.'_

With a final, steady breath, he pushes.


End file.
